Funny Farm
by White as Sin
Summary: Love affair gone sour, irritated detective without caffeine, plenty of occult, strange humor with a good dash of mystery! Where does karma fit in though? Kenyako
1. The Day from Hell

Funny Farm  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Warnings: Profanity, violence, possible sensuality/nudity, sexual innuendo, occult  
  
Genre: General/Drama  
  
Time Period: N/A, AU  
  
Spoilers: None  
  
Summary: Love affair gone sour, irritated detective without caffeine, plenty of occult, strange humor with a good dash of mystery! Where does karma fit in though? Kenyako  
  
Disclaimer: No, I do not own Digimon. Damn you UPN and FOX!!!

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Chapter One: The Day from Hell

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You know, there are those days in which everything goes wrong. When you think that you've done pretty good things in your lifetime, at least not enough to get that bad karma, but then life decides not give a shit about karma.  
  
Detective Ken Ichijouji was having one of those days.  
  
First off, he had smashed his alarm clock (and may that sadistic hunk of plastic and metal burn in hell) and overslept. When his biological clock (unfortunately very slow) kindly reminded his sleep-fogged mind that he was going to be late unless he somehow gained the abilities of the Flash within the next ten nanoseconds, he promptly jumped out of bed, ready to grab his clothing.  
  
And fell flat on his face.  
  
It was ten minutes later when a very haggard, very irritated Detective Ken Ichijouji exited his apartment.  
  
Only to stumble and fall down a flight of stairs.  
  
It was his luck that Mrs. Yamazaki (also known, though discreetly, as the Old Bat) was at the bottom with her cats. And he just happened to accidentally step on one.  
  
"You evil man!" she had shrieked and the next thing he knew, a string bag filled with countless tins of cat food went swinging at him. He was laid flat on his back, dazed and probably with a broken nose, while the Old Bit- Bat was cooing over one of her god-be-damned, mangy felines.  
  
"It's okay, Mr. Fluff Fluff, the nasty cop isn't going to hurt you, not when Mama's here to protect you." She shot dazed form of the officer a nasty glare.  
  
It was an even more annoyed Detective Ichijouji who left the apartment complex, with two bumps on his skull, a very sore nose, and the beginnings of a black eye, rumpled clothing, and a rising temper. His memory decided to enlighten him on his route to the station that he had forgotten his briefcase, with all the reports he had been working his ass off on the night before. Already very late and more than halfway there (also not particularly desiring another encounter with the Old Bat), he gritted his teeth and continued.  
  
He then endured a thirty-minute lecture from the head of his precinct on being punctual (and to his irritation, the detective was not treated with at least a "What the hell happened to your face, kid?" during the half hour tirade.) and a fifteen minute screaming session following that from the secretary for having to put her through another night of begging for an extension on the reports. Ears sore, he limped to his desk, hoping to at least get a moment's respite for aspirin and coffee.  
  
No luck.  
  
The minute he raised a paper cup to his lips to sip at the glorious ambrosia of coffee, he was rudely jostled out of his seat. He was being sent out on patrol. Growling and wiping the hot liquid from his shirt the best he could, he stalked out, muttering obscenities.  
  
The rest of the day was filled with every single irritating thing that could happen on a patrol, from dealing with two punks duking it out on the streets over a girl to attempting to calm a hysterical mother whose child had simply gone down to the corner store without telling her (Ken privately empathized with the kid; the woman was a harridan.).  
  
Just when he arrived at the station, ready to take a half-day, go home, and fall into his bed, he was called over to his desk.  
  
A woman was seated there.  
  
She was not necessarily pretty, not by conventional standards, but she held charm. Her hair was lilac, and it was most definitely NOT dye, pulled into a neat bun on her head. She wore glasses, business style, most definitely suiting her handsomely tailored burgundy jacket and skirt and elegant cream silk shirt. She could have been any successful businesswoman, calm, cool, collected and very intelligent. If it weren't for the fact that her lovely amber (Amber? A most unusual color for eyes. And wait a second; did he just call her lovely?) eyes were silently crying, and a livid bruise crawled from the top of her left cheekbone to her jaw.  
  
"Ma'am?" he asked, uncomfortable. Great, was his life becoming an old detective movie now? He wasn't feeling terribly like Sam Spade at the moment.  
  
She sniffed, looking up. Then when she saw him, she gasped a little, jumping slightly. But she managed to calm herself down, breathing deeply, a hand on her chest. Her face was faintly blotchy, and her eyes were starting to redden. She reached into her purse, hunting for tissues or a handkerchief. But Officer Ken Ichijouji was used to this. He pulled out his own handkerchief (He never went anywhere without one, thanks to his mother. [1]) and offered it to her. She took it with murmured thanks and carefully wiped away her tears.  
  
"Ma'am, could you tell me what's wrong?"  
  
It was an office joke to send all the "damsels in distress" to him, because of his polite manner ("The 'chivalrous knight,'" some were fond of saying, snickering. "Always out there to rescue the damsel, whether she's a kitchen maid or princess." He usually got them to shut up, especially by primly pointing out hardly any women clung to them during frightening situations.) and because, most figured he needed to get laid ("He's an ice prince!" "You don't think he's- you know." "I doubt it." "But it's possible." "Hmm. Give him five months. If he's still frigid, we can consider that possibility.").  
  
She continued to cry and he went to one knee in front of her after barking at a trainee for hot tea. If any of his colleagues had a good look at this, they would be laughing their asses off. Daisuke would be gathering bets, Takeru would be hooting, and Sora was be smiling much like a matchmaking mother. Thank God all three were out.  
  
She shook her head quickly. The trainee came with the requested item, running off soon after. Ken offered her the tea, gently taking her cold, numb fingers and wrapping them about the cup. Robotically, she lifted the cup up to her lips and drank, as though she had not drunk in days, quickly draining the cup in a few gulps. Her chest shuddered in sobbing breaths.  
  
"Breath, ma'am," he said. "You're going to be all right. I promise."  
  
She looked at him and her eyes were blank. In his five years in the field, and years of experience before that, Officer Ken Ichijouji was used to reading people. As the old philosopher said, "The eyes are the windows to the soul." And these windows were shuttered so tightly he suspected something truly traumatic had happened.  
  
"No, no," she whispered. "Never. It's not safe, not while he's about."  
  
"Ma'am, please, calm down. Talk to me." Ken felt a twitch come to his left eye (A very annoying habit developed since entering the field that surfaced whenever he was agitated), yet something like dread started to chill his inner self.  
  
She took a deep breath and put on a professional mask. Raising her hands to brush away invisible hairs away from her face, she looked at him, reaching for her handbag.  
  
"My name is- Miyako, Kaiser Miyako. My husband is Kaiser Edward, or I suppose, Edward Kaiser[2]," she started, and Officer Ichijouji noticed a wedding band on her hand. He resisted the urge to arch an eyebrow; that diamond was HUGE.  
  
Kaiser. Why was that name so familiar?  
  
She pulled open her handbag, pulling out a slim leather booklet, a photo holder. Her beautifully manicured fingernails pulled out a professional wallet sized photo of a handsome man.  
  
Ken gaped.  
  
The picture was of him. But under closer scrutiny, there were subtle differences. Ken's hair was long; he had little time to worry about his hair with his hectic schedule and so let it grow to about shoulder length, framing his face with indigo strands that could easily be pulled back. This man's hair was shorter, reaching about the ears and slightly unruly. Ken's face was slimmer, the cheekbones a touch higher, the chin firmer The eyes were markedly different as well. Ken's eyes were deep indigo; one of his last lovers (contrary to popular belief he was NOT a virgin) romantically called them a mingling of sapphire and amethyst, long lashed like a female's (a source of constant needling and harassment for him) and almost too large for his face (giving an irritatingly effeminate look to his already soft face). This man's eyes were hard blue, like dark ice, and rather narrow. He was smiling faintly in the picture, but it was a cool smile, one that did not reach his narrow blue eyes. Ken mused that his almost twin was attractive enough, but something about him chilled him to the bone.  
  
"He's the CEO of a recently established software company," the woman- Miyako, Ken reminded himself- said softly. "But before that, he was the heir to a substantial amount of money from his family. We once knew each other from high school. I was- struggling through college and he proposed. Money was hard to get and he was always kind enough so I accepted."  
  
He nodded politely enough, prompting her to go on. She sipped at her tea, a professional mask soon starting to slide onto her face. "Lately, he's been distracted. Money's been suddenly showing up or disappearing from the ledgers, both company and personal. He's starting to ignore the social functions he has to go to and he's been coming home at times that are unusual."  
  
"So you think something is up," Ken noted. "Ma'am, if you are fearing of his personal activities, shouldn't you contact a private practice?" After he said those words, he suddenly felt like a total asshole.  
  
She looked at him, and there was iciness in her amber eyes. "I do not fear an affair, Ichijouji-san. If you have read the news of late, you will know of no fewer than three deaths that have happened within the last two months, all concerning powerful businessmen. All of them were partners with my husband's company. I have reason to think that my husband is up to less than scrupulous methods to gain power."  
  
Ken then noticed scars and bruising on the woman's wrists and his blood ran cold. "Ma'am, are you in danger?"  
  
She looked at him for a long moment and slowly stood up. "What happens to me doesn't matter. I just want to stop these deaths." She fumbled in her purse, pulling out a matchbook and a pen. Scribbling something on the matchbook, she handed it to him. "You can contact me at this hotel and at that number, Detective [3]. But I warn you. Be discreet." She then turned and walked out quickly.  
  
Ken looked at the matchbook. It belonged to a very classy hotel, from what he could deduce from the royal blue cardboard and golden lettering. As far as he could deduce, the number he had been given was to a cellphone. How very shrewd of her.  
  
He sighed, grabbing his jacket. What he needed was sleep and he was getting out of here as fast as he could so he could get it.  
  
"Oi! Ichijouji!"  
  
Shit.

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[1] You'll get this if you've ever read Patricia C. Wrede.  
  
[2]In case this confuses some readers, I'm using the Asian way of saying names, with last name first. As for Edward, he's a gaijin (a foreigner) and prefers his name the Western way (last name last).  
  
[3]Let's just assume she saw his nameplate. It's me being lazy though and forgetting how the hell Japanese people address detectives or officers. I know there's a specific name though. --;;

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Well... what do you think of the rewrite? I'll try to continue this. But it is rather difficult as I have a busy schedule and another story to write. I'm sorry! But Ken-kun wouldn't keep on bugging me to continue this one... Leave constructive criticism, please! It helps me considerably. 


	2. Leftover Chinese and Five Star Dining

A/N: Hello everyone! I'm finally working on this story! I know that I should be putting my efforts into Silver and Glass but this sort of comedy is a diversion from the somewhat stifling, ornate style of writing I have to do for that story. This one I can be wry in tone and make more salacious jokes (not that I'm particularly good at them), as well as not focus as much on poetic language.

Adrian: You lazy ass.

Shut up, you.

Adrian: Hn.

You've been around Aya too long.

Adrian: By the way, she doesn't own Digimon or the anime/manga references she makes in this story.

Chapter Two: Leftover Chinese and Five Star Dining

2200 hours

Ken finally dragged himself home. Dodging the old bat, he got to his apartment and trudged into the kitchen. He didn't bother getting takeout on his way home and he didn't feel like ordering anything.

Opening his refrigerator, the detective wrinkled his nose. He hadn't gotten the chance to shop for that long and the only thing that looked mildly appetizing that wasn't alcohol or condiments was a carton of Chinese takeout.

Beggars couldn't be choosers.

Gingerly, he pulled out the carton of Chinese food and opened the paper box. Sniffing at it, he was sure that nothing was growing in it... yet. He stared at the noodles and chunks of chicken, congealed into a greasy mess that enclosed the food in something that resembled gelatin. Only gelatin usually wasn't pale brown 1.

He put it in the microwave, punched in a time, and waited for the preparation of his meal of the gods while pulling out a fork from a drawer. Something was laughing at him, he was sure. And had something strongly against him.

Though not a strong believer in religion, Ken wondered vaguely if he had done something truly horrible in a past life to deserve this. His thoughts were swiftly interrupted. The microwave beeped impatiently, signaling the end of its demeaning task of reheating leftovers.

Opening the door, he dodged the somewhat savory smelling steam flowing from the box and gingerly reached in to grab his dinner.

"To health," he said, toasting to some invisible host, before stabbing a piece of chicken and popping it in his mouth.

It actually was palatable and he chewed carefully before swallowing. Stabbing another piece, he ate it, mind lurking back to the subject of the woman who visited the station.

Miyako Kaiser. A curious woman indeed... Why so cold yet at the same time so fearful? He picked up some noodles, remembering her face.

There was no bruising, not even under the makeup she wore. If she was being abused, her abuser obviously was careful not to leave marks too visible. Of course, he scolded himself. Most did in these more enlightened times.

He formed her face in his mind, recalling each detail. Broad forehead, the standard of beauty in many cultures. Wide eyes with long lashes and colored so strangely... And she was a Japanese woman? That was none of his business really, but he couldn't help but wonder. Amber eyes and lilac hair. He hadn't seen that combination even in the wilder clubs he inhabited from time to time.

The eyes were frightened, haunted by something. She hid something, locking it up into a box and hurling it into the deepest recesses of her mind. He frowned, about to bite into another piece of chicken. Then he remembered the matchbook she had given and fished it out of his pocket. He stared at it for a long moment before setting it down by his phone.

Picking up the phone, he dialed the number on the matchbook. There were three rings before a female voice answered. "Inoue."

"Ah, may I speak to Mrs. Kaiser?" He set down his carton as well, not wanting to talk to her through a mouthful of Chinese takeout.

There was a moment of tension. "Would this be Detective Ichijouji?"

"Yes. Mrs. Kaiser, is it possible to meet some time? I would like to know more about your husband."

A pregnant pause. "Very well. When are you free from your duties?"

Ken paused for a moment, groping for a date. "Will Sunday at noon be convenient?"

"Yes."

"Is there anywhere you would like me to meet you?"

"Duklyon Towers 2, if you please, at their main restaurant." Her voice was conversational, though somewhat guarded.

Ken gaped, before flinching. Duklyon Towers, as well as having some of the finest rooms in Tokyo, boasted no fewer than seven restaurants, each with no fewer than five stars, from its cocktail bar to main restaurant. With delicacies and dishes very few could match, the main restaurant was especially popular, with limited reservations. This woman had expensive taste.

"Ah, I will meet you there then, Mrs. Kaiser," he managed to say, keeping his voice conversational.

"Please be punctual," she said, with all the chilly dominance of an etiquette teacher. "Good night, Detective."

"Good night then," he answered before hanging up. He ran a hand through his long hair before eyeing the Chinese food. His appetite vanished. Sighing, he dropped the fork into the sink and the carton into the trash can before trudging off to the bathroom.

No life like the bachelor detective's.

"Yo, Ichijouji!" A Styrofoam take out container was heavily dropped onto the detective's desk. The dark haired man looked up to see the beaming face of Motomiya Daisuke 3.

"What is it now, Daisuke? And I hope what you put on my desk isn't trash or I will-"

"Relax, man! Who spit in your coffee this morning?" Daisuke ducked the dark glare Ken sent him. "And it's my own ramen, for your information." He grinned. "Nothing but the best for my pal!"

Ken only shook his head but pulled the container to him after clearing away papers on his desk. As he pulled the lid off the enormous cup, he was assaulted by steam smelling strongly of chili pepper. The detective had to admit; Daisuke was a damn good cook when it came to ramen.

Sick of the generic brands available on the grocery shelves, college boy Daisuke had made his own ramen. Though normally a disaster in most home-economic based activities (i.e. blowing up an oven when in middle school... without even turning it on.), he had found a sudden gift in making Chinese noodles and was soon assaulted by many requests to come over to dinner on ramen night. 4

Pulling out a pair of chopsticks (A pair of red and blue ones he always kept in his desk), Ken started to eat, suddenly finding himself hungry. Daisuke still beamed.

"Ramen! One way into a woman's heart!" he crowed and Ken rolled his eyes, swallowing noodles.

"If that's your philosophy, that must be why you're still single," he remarked dryly.

Daisuke gave him a hurt look with enormous, expressive brown eyes. "Ken-chaaaaaan 5!" he wailed. "You're so mean!"

Ken flushed, after swallowing another mouthful. He managed to say crisply, "Of course. But it's for your own good, isn't it?"

Daisuke pouted. He was the type of man who never seemed to age mentally beyond twelve, even as his body changed. His hair, a wild mop of russet-brown, spiked every which way, unable to be tamed by gel, cap, or band. The chief gave up on trying to get him to cut it and only sighed in a long-suffering manner every time the exuberant cop passed his office. Daisuke's eyes, bright mahogany, always gleamed with the eternal innocent joy of a child along with the mischief of a three-year-old.

But as Ken's friend (and college roommate), he was good as gold and reliable in a fight or hard times. Ken stifled a smile as he finished his ramen.

"That's what my mother says," Daisuke complained.

"And I had to BE your mother at some points," Ken told him tartly. He checked his watch. Just a few more hours...

Miyako Kaiser –she grimaced at having to use the name- rubbed her temples. She called om her secretary and without looking at the petite girl, "Juri, compose an acceptance letter back to the Imonoyamas 6 about their party, get my designer in here with at least two dresses that are ready to be fitted this time, and for heavens' sake, get me a cup of tea."

"Yes, Kaiser-san." She bowed and hurried off.

The lilac-haired woman glanced down at her notepad. She had been doodling and scrawling quotes from the comedy shows she had so loved when she had loved when she was younger. That show from America, Saturday Night Live, had been a favorite of hers, as she had learned English when very young.

English takes over the world, she thought ironically. It is the language of business despite being one of the most damnably complex languages in the world.

She pulled her glasses off; glad she had not opted for contacts today. When rubbing her forehead, she scratched herself with the enormous diamond on her wedding band.

"Shit!" she swore, glaring at the twinkling gem.

Edward.

Charming, intelligent, cunning, enigmatic Edward.

The bastard.

The ring was his collar on her; she didn't need to hear his whispered "You're mine" to realize that. She glared at it.

To the world they looked the loving, professional couple. She smiled ironically at recollection of a recent article saying just how "romantic" they were. They were the perfect pair.

On the outside.

His pale eyes, like ice, bestowed her coolly appreciative looks for the benefit of the cameras that hounded them. But they held nothing of love at all. His arm would wrap about her waist in an embrace that was more like a possessive grasp.

He would never let her go. Because she was just another possession of his and he was so jealous of his things.

Another pair of blue eyes but darker and so much softer looked at her from her memory. So much more expressive, so much more concerned.

She tried to brush the thoughts of the detective away, scolding herself. No matter how charming he was she couldn't get close. It was dangerous enough going to him. Besides, Edward had already taught her the dangers of charm.

Her eyes opened as the door opened. "Juri, it's about time-"

But it wasn't Juri. Instead, a tall, lean man leaned in the doorway. He was beautiful in the same fashion as Edward, chilly and remote and brimming with secrets. His hair was golden and fell roguishly into his face, covering a dark blue eye slightly. He was smiling at her as he looked at her over the rims of black Gucci sunglasses.

He was all in black, from his neatly polished black shoes to the long suitcoat he wore elegantly draped on his muscled form. Expensive, tasteful clothing, down to the custom-made black leather gloves upon his hand to the well-polished boots upon his feet, except for tiny, intricate pin upon his tie that was a spot of pale color upon the gleaming, patterned silk. He made Miyako's skin crawl.

"Mrs. Kaiser," he said, the English accented delicately.

"Who are you?" she demanded, skipping all pretenses of niceties.

"Ishida Yamato," he said, bowing to her politely and slowly entering the room.

Miyako's hands tightened their grips on her chair. "And what do you want?"

"I am a new partner of your husband's," he said, as he stopped in front of her desk. His voice was a low purr. "We are to work together quite closely now and he wished that we acquaint ourselves."

"A pleasure to meet you," she said politely yet icily, though inwardly, she trembled in fear.

"My, you are a lady to the last, Mrs. Kaiser. Are you a blueblood by chance?"

"If you mean I am somehow related to the imperial family, no," she snapped. "Do not flatter me with such niceties, Mr. Ishida."

"Fire as well," he mused to himself. He leaned forward, almost looming over her.

"So exotic," he whispered, looking to her lilac hair and her amber eyes. "A flower that blooms once in eternity. One that will wither away so easily yet burns, burns with all the fervor of a transient flame."

His gaze froze her, pools of sapphire blue dragging at her, pulling her close. Now she could see the details of his tiepin. It was of curious ivory, carved in the form of a five-petal blossom with an impossibly red center. There was a curious lump in the center that she couldn't quite make out.

His leather-covered hand ran down the side of her face. "I can see why he keeps you so close." Miyako was so frozen in fear she could barely breathe.

Her eyes looked down to the pin again. It was ivory, it was ivory, if ivory had coarser grain and was more like bone- Blood dried brown, not red but why did the center suddenly seem to gleam as if doused by the substance? Was it a heart, a beating, livid human heart?

The spell was broken as the dreadful hand was taken away. "I hope to meet you another time, Ms. Miyako," he said, smiling at her. Then he just vanished without a word or a sound.

He had been in front of her one moment and was gone the next.

Miyako blinked before collapsing in her chair. The smell of flowers was now in her room, mingled with hints of blood...

"Kaiser-san." Juri entered with the tea she had been ordered to get. "Kaiser-san, are you all right?"

"Just- a little tired, Juri." She managed to get herself up as Juri set the tea down.

"Those are beautiful, Kaiser-san. Did your husband send those to you?" she asked, looking to the side.

"What?" Miyako looked as well.

There was a vase upon her desk where there had been nothing but papers before. It was of painted pottery, glazed violet and with painted white lotuses upon it. Arranged within it was a bouquet of white camellia blossoms. There was a card attached to vase. In neat, beautifully penned black writing was "Perfected loveliness." 7

Ken felt very much out of place in the luxurious lobby of Duklyon Towers. He had spent at least an hour trying to figure out what he should wear the night before and had fussed with his hair. He flinched at realizing its length. With his enormous eyes, delicate features and now, his long hair, he could pass himself off as a woman.

Though none at the station would EVER hear it from his mouth.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his long coat, a soft gray custom-made piece from his parents. It was actually one of their more sensible presents since he had joined the force (What the hell was he going to need a fondue set for?). His shirt was neat and pressed, slacks at least presentable. There was little he could do about his shoes however. The dress shoes he had were uncomfortable and unfortunately very inappropriate so he had opted for his every day footwear, albeit with a little polish on them.

"Detective."

Ken felt the presence even before the cultured, cool voice spoke. He turned slowly.

Miyako Kaiser stood before him, a vision in a lavender gown and white jacket. He realized just how tall she was; with heels she could look to him eye to eye. Her hair was coiffed and put into a severe bun, not a single strand out of place. Her makeup was natural, pink lightly at her lips and cheeks, and cream-colored pearls gleamed at her ears and about her neck.

He suddenly felt intimidated.

He shook himself mentally. "Kaiser-san."

She shook her head. "Miyako-san will be appropriate. That name is not particularly safe to speak lightly."

"As you wish, Miyako-san." He bowed to her before offering his arm.

She took it and he led her to the especially luxurious main restaurant, with its red velvet hangings, dark wood tables and chairs, and gold accents. He pulled out her chair for her and she gracefully sat with none of the delighted surprise most other woman granted him with when he did that for them.

He was just sitting down when a crisply attired waiter arrived, back so straight Ken was tempted to ask just how he did it without needing... interior support. There was a rather uncomfortable moment as water was promptly delivered, wine list presented, and daily specials rattled off before the prim waiter left.

The detective looked through the menu. His stomach complained though fortunately did not growl and embarrass him. Miyako was glancing through hers, though it seemed only a token gesture. Every movement of hers was never wasted, graceful as if she were being filmed. She slowly looked up at him and arched a lilac eyebrow. "Are you ready, Ichijouji-san?" she asked.

"Ah- yes, actually," he said, feeling as though he were an adolescent again meeting a sophisticated older woman.

"Hm." She closed her menu, setting it aside and picking up her water glass. "Thank you for coming here, Ichijouji-san."

"It is my job," he pointed out. "Can we start with perhaps, how you met your husband, in detail?"

She smiled politely, if a little wanly, and began.

1 This is actually based on an experience I had with leftover takeout. Only... my fridge usually has more than just alcohol and condiments... and leftover Chinese food.

2 This is based on Clamp, and their series revolving about Clamp Academy. Duklyon is an actual place on it and also refers to two boys who are defenders of the campus (as a parody of the Power Rangers).

3 Yes, I did it again. I flipped the names. Daisuke is the first name, Motomiya is the surname but I'm using Asian tradition this time, in spite of how I wrote the first chapter introducing Ken.

4 Honestly, can't you imagine this? Daisuke doesn't strike me as a particularly deft person when it comes to kitchen work yet he ends up owning an entire chain of noodle stands! And now he's a police officer who makes ramen as a hobby. Interesting, no? /laughs at the image of a bunch of guys and girls knocking at Daisuke's apartment, asking to come in when he's cooking ramen/

5 –chan is an affectionate ending to a name in Japanese. Most of the time it's used for little kids and between lovers. Also, it is used to piss off people. Like in this case.

6 Ah yes, another Clamp reference. The Imonoyamas are an influential family who founded Clamp Academy.

7 Perfected loveliness is the flower message of white camellia blossoms, which incidentally are the flowers that are used to make most kinds of tea.

Thank you all! /dancing because of the fluffy finale of Demon Diary/ I just got it! Woohooo!


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